Cell phone furniture and other necessities

Cookie Monster watches over my cell phone as it rests in its own bean-bag chair.


I love gadgets and gizmos. I have my share of things I thought we couldn’t live without; some I’ve given away, some I’ve sold and others sit unused and nearly new inside dark cupboards and closets.

Sis and I were raised by a single mom who cooked and tended bar for a living, so we never had much. Food, shelter and hand-me-down clothing—those were the essentials, and mom saw to it that we had most of what we needed.

When I got married, I thought I hit the jackpot. Gone were the days of counting and accounting for every penny. Hubby never ever asked me to explain purchases and it felt both wonderful and weird. Eventually, though, I got used to buying what we needed and many things I wanted without having to jump through hoops.

Years passed and mistakes were repeatedly made, and before long I could see that maybe I wasn’t the best in the household finances department. Lessons were learned the hard way and my mistakes caused others to suffer, so I did a 180. Once in a while, though, I slip off the rails and make little boo-boos. Hence the photo at the top.

Apparently I’m still influenced by those around me. I saw a Staples button that, when pressed says, “That was easy!” It cost $5 and part of the proceeds went to a charity I believe in, so I justified the purchase to hubby by using that reasoning. Well, I tried to convince him but he just shook his head. That stupid button is around here somewhere, no doubt covered in dust.

Thing is, I love the expensive gadgets as much as the cheap ones. Computers are at the top of my list, and so is anything that has a computer chip in it. I have a so-so cell phone, but that’s OK. Someday I hope to get a BlackBerry or an iPhone (ha!), but until then I have a PDA (personal digital assistant) full of information I carry with me at all times. Hubby argues that a small notebook would serve the same purpose and cost about $97 less than the PDA did.

Also on board in my purse are the following: A digital voice recorder, a digital camera, extra batteries, cords for the camera and PDA, plus, of course, notebooks and pens.

I thought I was doing pretty well with reining in my spending until I saw someone at work with an itty-bitty bean-bag chair that was designed to hold his cell phone. It was adorable. And I had to have one.

Instead of showing off my $3 purchase, I took the sack from Staples to work with me, placed it on my desk and rested my phone on it. That ritual lasted about a week before I began to forget the newly-purchased phone furniture. The chair sat there for a few months, the phone traveled and stayed inside my purse, until one day when I grabbed the chair and took it home.

One of the many things I love about my husband is his comic reaction to some of things I do. This was going to be fun. I put the phone chair on top of the chest of drawers, placed my cell phone on it and invited hubby over to check it out.

“What is that?” he asked.

“It’s a chair for my phone,” I replied.

He slapped his forehead. “Unbelievable,” he said, as he walked away muttering to himself.

At least it was only $3. I’ve come a long, long way but I can always do better. We’re never too old to learn, right?

Clever dog and a bargain-happy hubby

Let’s catch up with Sarah Jane and hubby, shall we? And check out our new-ish ceiling fan – a real bargain at $17.50!



About a week ago I was refilling the napkin holder when I ran across a small yellow tablet with a “to-do” list written in familiar handwriting. Hubby had optimistically jotted down almost a dozen projects that needed attention. Some required small repairs; others were your start-from-scratch variety jobs.

I innocently placed the tablet on the kitchen table, and when Mr. Fix-it came downstairs for his first cup of coffee he glanced at the list, then without missing a beat he put the offensive paper back where I’d originally found it. Not a word was spoken, but I can take a hint.

So here we were on a Friday morning when the announcement is made that the ceiling fan in the living room needs to be replaced with the one purchased about a year ago at an auction. I have to say that my husband gets some of the best deals at auctions that I have ever seen. We have a TV that works beautifully, and it cost a mere $7. The living room television was a tad more expensive at $17.50. Our like-new (and sometimes outright new) ceiling fans now twirling in three rooms cost anywhere from $.50 to $17.50. The man is a wonder, I tell you.

I’m guessing here that the one slated for the living room was a used fan, and I’ll let you know why a bit later.

First, though, let’s start with Sarah Jane. We realize that our pooch is probably going to need her seizure medication for the rest of her life. To say that she’s getting bored AND clever about taking her pills would be a gross understatement. Sarah used to gobble that meat-covered med in a second, but now she’s grown tired of the whole thing. She’s found clever ways of eating the meat and pt-ooing the pill straight out of her mouth.

I was in a hurry to get to the office, but the dog needed her pill so I prepared the usual, stopped by the sofa where she was stretched from end to end and I proceeded to hold out the tempting treat. She turned up her considerable nose at the idea and we had a stare-off. I sighed, went back to the kitchen and stripped the meat off. I took out the cheese, cut a small chunk and shoved the pill inside. That seemed to meet with Her Highness’s approval, but there was a small movement of some sort and I half-wondered if she had dropped the pill again. I had to go to work, so I didn’t stop to check.

A few hours later, hubby was preparing the ceiling fan switcheroo. He bent over and picked up some round, white squishy-looking thing that may have once been a doggy pill. Sarah was now about three hours overdue for her medicine and I freaked a little. I grabbed some more cheese, dug another hole and pushed in a new pill and gave it to her. I swear she looked pleased with her bad self.

It was on to business, so Sarah was blocked from the living room while the ceiling fans were exchanged. Here’s a brief scenario:

• Bring rickety wooden ladder up from the basement and put it under the fan
• Bring tools and many other “things” downstairs to help switch out the fans
• Bring the newer fan downstairs – the blades, globes, etc.
• Look for and find duct and electrical tape; tape down the light/fan switch
• Remove old fan, swear a little, take a cigarette break (OK, take three of ‘em)
• Put up newer fan, test lights (they don’t work), stop and think whether this was a good idea
• Cigarette break
• Re-wire fan to see if lights work. They don’t. Swear some more because now the fan part makes an awfully scary noise
• Re-wire fan knowing the lights won’t work but the fan part will
• Cigarette break
• Remove ladder, check the carpet for dropped screws so the dog won’t eat them, and take away the rest of the tools, etc.
• Stare up at the newer fan, nod, and, yes, time for another cigarette break


Throughout the above two-hour ordeal, I helped hubby pick up numerous dropped screws and other doo-dads so that Sarah wouldn’t find and eat them. A pill she’ll spit out, but give her a rock, a coin or something else she shouldn’t have and she’s all over it.

Hopefully I’ve caught you up on Sarah Jane and hubby, at least for now. I have more stories to share and I promise I’ll do that – in another week.

See you next Saturday!

I'll be back - really!

Sarah Jane was wondering: Where have you all been?

Ah, dear reader, it'll be good to be back!

On Saturday, August 29 I'll return with the first of my weekly columns. The first one will be about Sarah Jane, our sweet pooch who has been battling odd little seizures since May.

Many folks have stopped me while I was out and about to ask about Sarah. They were concerned about her well-being and they also let me know in no uncertain terms that they missed my Friday column. That did my heart good!

I love sharing the happenings in my family with you and yours. It's kind of like getting together for coffee once a week, and I've come to know so many of you through the words I've penned for the last few years. I miss you!

One of the neatest things about this is that I'll be able to post color photos. That means you'll get to see Sarah at her best (and maybe her worst!) The possibilities are many, and I intend to take advantage of the opportunity to share my world in photos and words.

Until Saturday, then. Oh, and please pass the word - I'd love to see all of you right back here in a few days.

Come see what Sarah Jane has been up to!

Margi

Flappity flappity flap and other stuff

It’s been a little while now since I’ve written a column for our local newspaper. I had the Friday slot and in general, I had a great time sharing tidbits of life with a retired husband, our gigantic yellow Lab, family oddities and whatnot. But budget-cutting became the In Thing, so work hours were cut to the bone (and then some) which meant the column got kicked to the curb.

Yesterday as I was pulling out of a primo parking spot at the local Big Box store, I happened to catch a movement out of the corner of my eye. Where did those two women come from? I mistakenly thought that I’d almost run them over, but not so. Thank goodness.

I rolled down the car window and one of them leaned in asked if I was Margi. Yup, I was, and that was when she asked what had happened to my column. I explained things as tactfully as I could, she told me what she thought of that, then she asked me about our pooch, Sarah Jane.

In the last column published, I told how our saved-from-the-shelter dog was doing (her seizures seem to be subsiding, though no one knows why she has them or if they’ll ever go away.) Sarah’s on medication, and that’s the best we can do for her for now. Well, that, and love the stuffing out of her – she’s a beautiful dog with a beautiful, sweet soul.

Now, let’s get to what hubby’s been up to. First, I should explain that I have awful osteoarthritis in my knees. I get through the day with store-brand ibuprofen. Hubby has a knee that gives out on him now and then, but being A Guy he just pops that baby back in and goes on about his business.

Well, that didn’t happen a week ago when he was fixing the hot water leak in the bathtub/shower. Apparently he wrenched his knee a good one coming out of the bathtub and he doesn’t really feel like it’s gone back in yet.

See, just like so many of our fellow human beings we are going through a rather common phenomena: we’re strapped for cash. Instead of getting a professional to fix the seemingly never-ending leaky faucet, we’re doing it ourselves. There’s no money for that sort of thing, what with the dog and the husband being on a variety of medications for probably forever, along with the ever-rising cost-of-living expenses.

Once we realized that ordinary painkillers weren’t going to do the job for his knee, I was finally told to call the doctor. Ka-ching!

The doctor sent us to the hospital for an x-ray. Ka-ching!

The verdict: ordinary, old-fashioned, age-related degenerative knee problem that should be solved with ibuprofen and rest.

So, let’s sum up: Leaky faucet? Check. Doctor bill? Check. Bill for x-ray? Check. And finally: Cranky hubby? Check, and check!

And that husband got crankier than ever today because instead of following doctor’s orders, someone is out and about helping a family member with their yard work. That would be bad enough, but I had to call him back home.

I was working on an article (OK, so I was playing Spider Solitaire – but just for a couple of minutes) when I heard noises coming from the laundry room. It’s not uncommon for hubby to say he’s leaving, then come back inside a time or two or three because he forgot something. It happens far more often than not, so I just figured he was back there getting some tools.

I realized the dryer had stopped, so I moseyed on back to fold the clothes. I opened the dryer door, folded one pair of underwear and stopped cold. What was that? It sounded like, “flappity-flappity-flap!” I slowly turned toward the noise and that’s when I moved very very fast for a woman with arthritic knees.

I couldn’t believe a bird inside the house would have that effect on me. It’s not like it was a raven or a vulture or anything. It was actually kind of pretty but I wanted that sucker out of my house and now.

Seconds later I was talking to a husband who really knows how to sum up the matter in few words, but I won’t share what those were. He made it home, opened the back door and the bird flew out. Sarah Jane had a blast watching the whole thing.

Everything is almost back to normal now. Hubby went back to not resting, and I’m trying to stay away from my favorite computer game. There’s a fresh, red ripe tomato calling my name so maybe I’ll take a break to make tomato burgers.

Ahhh, lunch with hubby, the dog, and no birds flappity-flapping around.

It’s a good day.

Remembering Luke Anthony and his grandma

He would have been 32 years old today.

Our youngest son was born July 28, 1977. I remember how scared I was; after all, he wasn’t due until October 5th, a long time away. The difference between summer and fall meant the difference between life and death to our little (and I do mean little) guy.

I recall most of that rollercoaster ride in our lives. Hubby and I discussed what we would name the baby if it was a boy. That part is easy to remember, but for the life of me I can’t come up with what we decided for a girl’s name.

Luke Anthony was a cool name, I thought, and there was meaning behind it. It’s not important now but it mattered to me then. I do know that my mom would have been quite impressed that I was thinking of her and the men she loved when I put those two names together for her third grandchild.

Mom never met any of her grandchildren. I can only imagine the impact she would have had on them with her vocabulary, and one has to wonder if the kids dodged a bullet here. That may sound cold but hey, mom cussed a blue streak and those words still bounce off the walls of my memory every now and then when I get really, really angry.

I can’t imagine mom even being a grandma because she doesn’t fit the image I have of one. She had a cynical view of life and people, especially her own family and some of that has filtered down through her daughters. Sis and I fight that feeling as needed, which is quite often these days. World, national, state and local news almost always brings messages of doom and gloom. Come to think of it, mom would’ve gotten quite a kick out of living in these tumultuous times.

I wonder sometimes how different our grandkids would be today if they’d known their other grandma. Would they be influenced by her, or vice-versa? Would her love of the dark and scary things in life have a negative effect, or would they get a kick out of a grandma who wasn’t quite like everyone else? We’ll never know.

Maybe I shouldn’t say that. Think about it: Mom and Luke Anthony are together now. That’s my belief anyway, and I’ve often daydreamed about how they’re getting along until we join them. I bet mom knows how her grandson got his name, and I’ll also wager she hasn’t taught him everything she could have. Thank goodness!

Mom left us on a stunningly beautiful fall morning, and trust me on this because I was there: She cussed all the way out. I thought she was just muttering in her sleep but the nurse informed me that she was not coming out of it. I was embarrassed for the other patient in the room because there was no mistaking that mom was making her feelings known about the whole situation.

Luke left us on a stunningly beautiful winter morning. Puffy blue clouds floated in a bright blue sky, and the sun glinted off of snow drifts. In contrast to his grandma, the little guy simply stopped breathing as I held him in my arms in a room full of family and friends.

I have to say that I’m glad the two of them are together to keep each other company. I’m guessing each one has taught the other a thing or two about Life.

And I hope they both know how much I miss them.

Because I'm God, and you're not

(This photo was taken Saturday afternoon, just before the storm hit. This picture mirrors what I sometimes feel when the pressures get to be a bit much.)




I have a confession to make. My prayer life has suffered a bit lately, and I know why.

When I prayed for a friend’s cancer diagnosis to be negative, it came back positive.

When I prayed for my job to continue as it has for quite some time, the answer came in a firm declaration of reduced hours.

When I prayed for the healing of family relationships, the answer was a stony silence.

When I prayed for our dog’s seizures to cease, the answer came back No.

And when I prayed for medicine for myself to ease the anxiety that the above “answers” gave me, the reply was, once again, No.

I had an argument with God the other day about these things. I pointed out that back in 1978, hubby and I had faith that our youngest son would make it out of the hospital and come home with us. Didn’t happen. Two weeks after Luke died, I had a long, drawn-out angry yell-fest with God. If I remember correctly, and I think I do, I mentioned something about hoping He’d taken enough from me, and could He please start answering my prayers – now?

In 2002, we saw our oldest son for the last time. We don’t know where he is, or whether he’s alive. Many friends and most of the family know about this; still, no one asks about him anymore and for some dumb reason, I was blaming that on God too. Every birthday, Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, holiday – or any day, really – brings our son to mind and heart and it hurts like you wouldn’t believe. Where IS he and why hasn’t God brought him home?

A few days ago I was talking with God. I was a bit angry. “Nothing seems to be going right,” I told Him. “I’m afraid to ask You for anything anymore because all You do is give me the opposite.” I had a sudden fear that I was causing more harm than good with my prayers, and that carries a whole new category of guilt.

Then today, I turned on TV to watch church. I could see the family members whose weeks’-long silence has befuddled, frustrated and saddened us. I was hoping the sermon would speak to them so they would see the error of their ways and contact us.

The pastor preached on faith. The title was something like: “When our faith seems to fail us.” Well! Maybe I was finally going to get some answers.

I did.

We were told that there could be three reasons why our faith seems to fail us. One is that God simply doesn’t exist.

Well, strike that one. I know better than that. We’ve lost one son and one is missing right now, so in my experience as a mom I have to say that this is one of the worst, if not the worst thing a parent can experience. Still, I never for once entertained the thought that God doesn’t exist, at least not for more than a few minutes. Hubby and I want to see our little guy again someday and we have faith that we will. Period.

The second possible reason for our faith failing us was this: that God’s plan is so far from ours, and because of that, it feels like He’s not listening. This is a reason I can hang my hat on, but that doesn’t mean I’m in love with it. It would help a whole lot if God would just drop me a line and explain what I’m going through instead of watching me try to walk a maze blindfolded.

Then our pastor reminded us: “Have Thine own way, Lord. Thou art the Potter and I am the clay.” I’ll try to remember that. Pastor also reminded us that we can’t put blinders on and tell God, “Unless You do it this way, I don’t believe You exist.” I’ve been doing that a lot lately, though I don’t have any doubt He exists. I just feel like He says No…far too often.

The third reason our faith seems to fail us is that we may have sin in our life, that maybe we have to make some adjustments. Perhaps, our pastor suggested, we need to pray to God that He search our hearts, and that His Spirit let us know what is standing between us and God.

I loved the analogy pastor gave about this. He said, as if he was talking to God while holding a big bucket over his head, “I’m in need of some blessings, God, and if You love me, if You’re paying attention, and if You’re not distracted, could You please fill up my bucket with blessings?”

Pastor noted that God’s answer might be that He can’t fill our bucket because there are too many holes in it. That maybe our hearts need changing, and until that happens any blessings poured into the bucket would be wasted as they leaked right out.

I took in the words and let them find a place inside me. The message moved me enough to write about it, but the real test will come the next time I pray. Since I send missives up throughout the day, that could happen at any time.

So far, I’ve not heard that the diagnosis has changed, my next paycheck will be short, the family never made the call to join them for breakfast after church, the dog is resting comfortably – for now, and the best I can do for my anxiety is, you guessed it, to pray.

And when I don’t get the answer I want, I think I’ll remember this one thing as I imagine His answer to my question of Why?

“Because,” He’ll say, “I’m God, and you’re not.”

I really can’t argue with that.

Dad

(Father's Day. The day that means something different to almost everyone, but I can't speak for others, just for myself. The following touches briefly on the life of a man who left a profound impression on me, and boy am I thankful for that.)



Gosh, I miss dad.

Granted he wasn’t my biological father; he was my husband’s dad and he was one in a million.

I first met Cody (a name I never called him – he was simply “dad”) when he and his family moved into a new home behind mine. I lived in the old rental house behind his with my ill mother and younger sister. Since I was the oldest, I did most of the chores and that included mowing the huge lawn every summer.

My future father-in-law and I met up one summer afternoon beneath the apple trees that grew along our property lines. He had twinkling blue eyes and I found out later that he thought my blue eyes were just beautiful.

Eventually I met his oldest son, we dated for three months and as of this moment, hubby and I have been married 36 ½ years.

Shortly after that meeting by the apple trees, I began watching more closely what was going on behind our home. This beautiful new house was coming together, and there were lots of men and a few women working around the place. My mother showed little interest in the new neighbors until after the home was built, moved into and the young kids made too much noise with their garage band. That’s when she did the neighborly thing – she called the police. I was mortified.

After some months passed and hubby won over my mom, I left home a married woman with a life of my own. My little sister, then 15, had to take over as caregiver.

I grew to love hubby’s family, but I had a special relationship with dad. My own father had walked away from his wife and baby when I was three weeks old. I only saw him once after that, for a couple of hours, so we never knew one another.

Maybe that’s why dad meant so much to me, but I know that’s not the only reason – not by a long shot. Dad taught me to be true to what my heart was telling me. I graduated from high school and even attended our junior college, so the head knowledge was there and I often tried to make things make sense before I came to a decision. Dad led with his gut, and I admired that. I also learned from it and more often than not, it’s how I live my life.

Dad’s last job was as a plumber-pipefitter, but he held lots of jobs throughout his life. This last one, though, paid enough for him to build his wife a home (mostly with his own hands) that she would have for the rest of her life. He wanted her to be able to live there as long as she wanted, even if he went on to Heaven first. Dad made sure the house was paid off, and it stayed that way – for a while.

Throughout the years, all four of dad’s sons married and had children. Grandkids visited often, gravitating toward their grandpa and strong relationships were formed. Dad was genuine, the Real Thing and they knew it.

Faith in God was a big deal for dad. He and I had lots of conversations about God, doing the right thing, speaking the truth and standing up for oneself. He gave me the gift of self-esteem, but he gave me so much more: respect as a person of worth. Dad loved me for who I was and that is a rare and wonderful thing.

In early 2001, dad became ill and later developed shingles. That developed into post-herpetic neuralgia and the father that I loved fought the pain for as long as he could. He passed away in March of 2004, and the family he held together for decades has drifted away from one another.

Still, one thread will always connect brother to brother, mother to sons, and grandchild to grandchild. Dad was a part of all of our lives and every single one of us can say the same thing and mean it with every fiber of our being:

Gosh, we miss you Dad.

It's a gas, gas, gas

(The U.N. might want to think twice before taxing this cow....)

Weird things happen all the time, and this past couple of weeks proved that point.

Hubby and I heard a lot about gas.

There was the outrageous report on, um, cow gas; the odd line item on our natural gas bill; and the daily climb for the price of gasoline at the pump.

Let’s do cow farts first.

I was watching Fox News one morning when a distinguished-looking gentleman appeared to discuss the proposed new taxes on cows and pigs. This man looked like a town banker, which made his four-time use of the phrase “cow farts” all the more hilarious. Naturally, I was fascinated. (I’m such a child.)

Turns out that the U.N. is accusing cows of producing 18 percent of the world’s greenhouse-gas emissions, and they claim that that’s more than planes, trains and cars combined.

While some believe that most of the methane is coming from the cow’s behind, others say the largest percentage comes from cow burps.

A suggested set of taxes on our cow buds went something like this: $125 per head for dairy cows; $85 per head for beef cows; and $20 per pig. These would be annual taxes.

Little alarm bells were going off in my head. If this tax went into effect, how long would it be before we couldn’t afford to consume dairy and meat products? What am I saying? As it is, I often window-shop at the steak counter of the grocery store before reality hits and I saunter to the cheapest ground beef and load up the cart. Looks like we’ll be replacing that protein with beans.

And there you go with another whole group of gas jokes.

Now, let’s take a gander at our latest utility bill. Seems as though AmerenIP is asking for yet another rate increase – this time, they say, it’s for delivering our energy to us. And, they point out with a wagging finger, they wouldn’t even have to ask us for more loot if they’d gotten every penny they asked for last time.

I’m one of those folks who actually reads more than the Total Amount Due on their bills. I want to know what we’re being charged for, and I sure found out.

Under “Total delivery services” (what it costs to deliver the gas to our home), the cost was $23.81. The amount of gas we used was $20.53. It cost more to deliver our gas than the product itself. As for the electricity portion, it cost $25.03 to deliver $33.32 worth of the product – a bit more balanced, but not by much. How much more will we all be charged to deliver a product none of us can do without?

That leaves the price at the gas pump. We’ve all heard that the prices have risen there for over 40 days in a row. Speculators, some say. Others opine that it’s summer blend, summer demand, low refinery output, and on and on. All I know is, we have less money to work with than before but we’re expected to pay more than ever.

I don’t have any easy answers. My job has been affected by the economy, so there’s less coming in, and with hubby on a fixed income that leaves wide open the almost-certain likelihood that one or both of us will have to take on a second, maybe a third job.

We both realize we’re in good company, that there are others worse off than we are, but sometimes that’s little comfort. As we try to sleep at night, our thoughts race and upset us to the point that we wake in the wee hours of the morning, our minds a-whirl with worst-case scenarios. For the umpteenth time, we huddle together over coffee at the kitchen table and scrape our budget to the bone, trying to find what else we can live without.

It’s enough to give one gas, if you know what I mean. And I think you do.

Friends, dogs and prayers at 3:30 a.m.

(Sometimes early mornings are great. It's quiet, and I like that. But sometimes, it's the perfect time for The Worries to attack and once they do, it's almost impossible to stop them.)


It was 3:30 in the morning, and I couldn’t sleep.

The dream I’d been having wasn’t pleasant, but it didn’t rise to the level of a nightmare. I’ve had those, and this wasn’t Steven King-ish in the least. Still, I was plenty upset at that early hour and sleep wouldn’t come so I resigned myself to the thoughts that sat waiting for an invitation.

First up was a review of the dream. I was driving behind a semi-truck that decided to back up without warning. I jumped out of the car and the truck kept coming and before I knew it, the front part of our Mercury Marquis was smooshed against a gray brick building. Hubby was going to be furious.

As I watched the truck change direction and drive away, I knew the next step was to call the police. When I grabbed the cell phone from my purse, it fell apart in my hands. It was totally useless.

In this dream I’d been at a house where a few family and friends were gathered, along with all of their dogs, including Sarah Jane. When I walked in the door to find someone to help me with the wrecked car, I noticed one thing immediately: there was undeniable proof that no one had bothered to let the pooches outside to relieve themselves. It was then that I woke up.

The next thought came quickly and I knew it was because the news had come as such a shock a few weeks back. A good friend, a talented and compassionate friend is facing a life-altering change that has rocked her world and the world of those who love her. I’m sure I’m not the only one who goes to bed and wakes up thinking about what’s happened and wondering what will come next.

I checked the bedside clock and noticed that a half an hour had passed. At 4:01 a.m. my thoughts turned toward Sarah Jane. There had been more seizures, more fear and worry, and the feeling of utter helplessness that turns me into a basket case.

On a late afternoon while hubby was away from the house, Sarah came to the side of my chair like she often does. She sat, and after a minute or so she went into a fly-biting episode. She was in a place I couldn’t go; she was all alone and I sat helpless while she tried to find her way back to me. Eventually, she did.

An appointment was made at the vet to draw blood, and I posted Sarah’s condition to a special place on the Internet that’s devoted to our canine companions. Within an hour, she had over 20 e-mails from her doggy friends around country. “Paws crossed in prayer,” most of them read, and I cried. More e-mails arrive daily, and I’m thankful.

Still, we won’t have the results of Sarah’s blood tests until next week, and the waiting is nerve-wracking.

By the time I was done maneuvering the minefield of thoughts that morning, it was close to 4:30. I woke for the day at 5:15.

Those early morning worry times are hard on a person, and I know many of you out there go through the same thing. How could you not when we’re all bombarded with crises that are out of our control? When there’s nothing at all you can do to change the situation, when all you can do is watch like a spectator in the stands?

Besides prayer, which is a big thing to me and something I practice throughout the day, there is one other thing I do to relieve the stress of those early-morning freak-out episodes. I try to remember to go to my Happy Place – a special part of my heart and mind where I keep pleasant memories. Those include hours spent in a bookstore, writing with a friend, meals out with hubby, chasing Sarah through the house, time at work with colleagues who never fail to make me laugh at least once a day – memories that help keep the monsters at bay for a little while at least.

Turning a hot temper into cool action

(At least dogs can take their playful aggression out on us humans. The rest of us try to maintain our composure - well, most of the time I guess.)


The earliest memory I have of completely losing my temper was when I was 10 years old. Sure, I got angry lots of times as a kid; after all, I had a younger sister who was a tattletale and a show-off. Plus, I knew that mom loved her best.

I got a glimpse of how hot my temper could get when some school kid punched my little sister in the stomach and made her cry. I lost control and ran after the offender with my lunch pail raised above my head. I was a very good runner, yet I could see I wasn’t going to catch this girl so I threw the pail and missed the moving target.

I cried in anger and humiliation, found my sister and headed toward home. We never told mom what had happened; it was one of many secrets we kept over the years.

There’s not much that makes me angrier than bullies picking on the weak, those in power lording it over others, or other similar examples. Problem is, I tend to take up someone’s cause, they welcome the help, then long after they’ve given up and gone about their business, I’m still fighting away. It’s one of a few faults I’m working on.

I remember another time I lost it. We were living in Arizona and I worked for a gas company. Customer service was a fun place with wonderful co-workers. Our bosses were terrific too, and the pay and benefits were the best I’d ever had.

My duties included working with customers on payment arrangements, scheduling turn-ons and turn-offs, sending technicians out on gas leaks, that sort of thing. The first day on the job went swimmingly until late afternoon.

An experienced rep worked with me that memorable day and I have to say that the training I had up to that point did not prepare me for an out-of-control, irate councilman.

I answered the phone politely, gave my name and the next thing I knew the rep and I were blasted into outer space with the expletives and demands coming from the mouth of our city’s government official. He was one angry dude.

Seems like the guy was getting ready to attend a fancy-schmancy affair and, as he put it, just as he was putting on his tuxedo jacket he heard a loud protest from his children that their outdoor pool water was cold. Apparently, some stupid schmo from our company had turned off his gas.

Once I got over the shock, I looked up the guy’s account and found that he hadn’t paid his bill in over three months, hence the wrench upon the gas meter. We were instructed to send someone out immediately to remedy the situation, and no, he wasn’t planning on paying up until he had the time. He was, after all, a very busy man.

I was giggling inside somewhere because I just knew this guy wasn’t going to get his way. Boy, talk about being naïve. A technician was dispatched pronto, apologies were made, and an extension was given, along with a note on the customer’s account that pretty much guaranteed that this awful misdeed would never be repeated. It was explained to me that sometimes a utility must appear before the city council, and to put it succinctly, the two sides needed each other.

The respect I had for those in charge nearly evaporated, but something else took its place. I promised myself then and there that once I knew how to do my job well, I would help those who, in my opinion, really deserved it. It was inevitable that I would get fooled a time or two, but I learned and the system worked well for a few years.

I never got tired of helping those who were struggling from paycheck to paycheck, who would have no hot water or heat (yes, it does get cold in the desert during the winter) unless they were given just a few more days to make their payment. The relief in their voices often made my day.

I still love to help those who are having a hard time, whether that involves speaking up for them or doing something more. I can’t chase folks and throw things at them these days, but my time is never wasted when people get the help they need.

Life will never be fair, and we’ll have to accept that. Still, let’s keep looking for ways to even things up a bit. It’ll be fun, trust me on this.

Here's to the pebble in my shoe

(Wouldn't you know it...we're gathered together (once again) for a memorial, a passing on of two people we all loved. Shouldn't we gather more often to celebrate while we're still here on Earth instead of waiting until it's too late? I'm just asking....)


Last Friday at around 5:30 a.m., I woke up knowing I had a full schedule. Work, meeting with a business partner, grocery shopping and some other agenda items I can’t recall at the moment – all of these were waiting for an enthusiastic and sharp-witted person. I’ll admit to the enthusiasm part; after all, I love my job and I’m thrilled to be involved in creating a new business. The grocery shopping was a ho-hum thing but necessary.

Let’s just say, I was going to be busy.

I’ve come to hate the word “busy”. Too many relationships have fallen by the wayside simply because folks have declared themselves to be too “busy” to call, drop by or contact me by any means available. What they’re saying, in essence, is that I am no longer important enough to spare even 300 seconds (that’s five minutes out of the 1,440 in every 24-hour period). Nice. No wonder there are so many fractured families and former friendships in our lives these days.

Oh, and I’m one of the guilty ones.

As I grabbed the purse, laptop and a briefcase Friday morning, I noticed that there was a sharp pebbly-type thing in my shoe. Instead of putting everything down and taking care of the problem, I wiggled my toes to move the annoyance around and headed out.

Work at the office went smoothly that morning, except for the pebble periodically making its presence felt. A toe wiggle and the pain went away. Time to meet with the business partner.

We spent most of the time sitting, talking and typing. She headed out the door first and I followed, with much more on my mind than I arrived with plus one more thing: the pebble was front and center once again. And I was too busy to mess with it. I gritted my teeth and headed for the grocery store.

As I wiggled my toes and perused the aisles, I wondered why I didn’t just take the time to take off my shoe and get rid of the tiny rock. The answer, I guess, was that I’d get to it when I got home. I could stand it until then.

I made it to a few more places before pulling into the driveway. I hauled in the bags, plus everything I’d taken with me that morning. A look at the clock told me I’d been gone over five hours. Not once during that time did I take a few seconds to stop, take off my shoe and shake it. I was too busy.

It’s no fun to admit this, but it wasn’t until a couple of hours later that I took care of the problem. I think I was fighting the pebble throughout the day just to show it who was boss. And now I know.

The story of the pebble in the shoe is real, and it did happen last Friday. But long before that, I could use that analogy to describe relationships that we let fall by the side of the road of life simply because we’re too busy to maintain them. We think the other person will understand; gosh, we have so many commitments! People are counting on us to do this, that and the other for them so, they’re sorry but you’re just going to have to wait until they have time for you in their life again.

But here’s the kicker: what if we wait so long, what if we let our hectic lifestyles kill off what really matters? Will those people still be waiting for you, or will they have turned away for good? You’ve got to know that you can only ignore loved ones for so long before they simply give up and go away for good.

The sad part of this story is that some will read it, see themselves and vow to change. They’ll promise to make that phone call and ask their brother, sister, aunt, niece, uncle, nephew, cousin or friend to lunch but they’ll fall flat on their face as soon as someone or something comes along that simply must have their attention.

Others will read this and not see themselves at all. Or, they’ll think it’s up to the other person to contact them and the inevitable march to a loss of closeness will continue until neither of them care one whit about the other.

As for me, I’ve made a list of those I’ve lost touch with. Thanks in large part to an annoying pebble in my shoe, I know better than to use the excuse of being too busy to ignore the most important part of life: my family and my friends.

Pebbles rock.

Doggone dogs we still love and always will

(Sarah Jane would have loved Cujo and Max and all the other pups we brought into our home and hearts.)


If you’ve owned a few dogs and cats over the years, and some of them have gone on to the Rainbow Bridge, you’ve probably seen a television commercial or two that brings back the memory of your dearly-departed four-legged buddy. We’ve seen a few ads lately that remind us of a couple of our lovable mutts.

One of our favorite dogs was Cujo, our Saint Bernard-mix. What a character she was, and not just because she was afraid of storms and firecrackers.

Hubby loved throwing food in the air just to see Cujo miss it. Sometimes it landed right atop her furry head, and most times she would seem unaware she had a piece of cheese just inches from her mouth. One of us had to pluck the food off her head and feed it to her. It never ceased to be funny.

With Max, our Malamute-mix, we had to be very, very careful. That long nose, sharp eyes and even sharper teeth were a lethal combination to any human hand that ventured too close while holding food. After she sunk her doggy fangs into hubby’s hand twice because he pulled a chocolate candy bar out of her mouth, we resorted to tossing her food from a safe distance for a while but I never gave up. Eventually Max could gently retrieve food from my outstretched hand. I felt like I won a prize.

Sarah the pup is another animal altogether. She is by far the biggest dog we’ve ever had. As she’s walked around the neighborhood, folks stop to talk to her and her master, drivers crane their necks to stare and one time a car full of young ladies yelled out, “Hey! Is that a Marley dog? It is! Hey!” I’m not sure what they expected Sarah to do, but she just kept her steady walking pace while sniffing the ground and trying to ingest whatever she could swallow before getting caught.

The weather has turned nice, so the dog is outside a good part of the day. That allows hubby and I to sit comfortably at the kitchen table and we’re able to eat slowly - our whole meal. Usually the pooch has her heavy head resting on our leg, staring up with sad brown eyes. Once she gets a bite from one of us, she immediately scurries around to beg from the other one. I’m sure we’re breaking some iron-clad rule by feeding the dog at the table but it’s our house, and our rules. Besides, if Sarah is nothing else, she’s loyal to those who let her lick the cold creamy part of a delicious Dilly Bar.

As we watch the TV ads that give us a glimpse at the pets we once had, I find myself wanting to try to replace Cujo and Max. This time, I’d want a dog that isn’t afraid of loud noises, and one who wouldn’t remove a finger or two as we offered food. But if we could have back the same ones we lost, who had the same idiosyncrasies, we’d take them in a heartbeat. After all, those are the dogs who stole our hearts in the first place.

Turning toward home on this Mother's Day

(A wish, a prayer, for those who may be far from home this Mother's Day - plus remembering my mom.)

That special day is the day after tomorrow. But it didn’t take a date on the calendar to remind me that Mother’s Day is this Sunday.

I knew all about it because of the scent of my favorite flowers floating through my open kitchen window. The lilac bush is tall and bursting with lavender blooms, and when I stand quietly, with my eyes closed I can almost see mom in my mind’s eye.

(As an aside, one of the weirdest experiences for me was when I couldn’t picture mom’s face shortly after she died. I was young, just 21, and I was having a severe memory problem. Turns out that’s not a strange thing at all – it happens to a lot of folks.)

That afternoon, after the sun warmed the air before it blew through the open window, I breathed in the memories of that house on Tenney Street with the lilacs just outside the living room windows. Isn’t it strange how a happy recollection can bring tears to your eyes and a lump to your throat?

I smiled as tears trickled down my face. There’s just something about a mom.

Those of us who hold that position too often believe we don’t measure up to what a mother should be. We measure ourselves against other moms we know, along with celebrity mothers. We think we’re too fat, too thin, not bright enough, too strict, too lenient. Some feel they can’t cook or keep a clean home.

I bet mom believed a few of those things about herself. As an adult, I now see that she had low self-esteem issues, yet I miss her something fierce. That means I loved her, no matter her perceived shortcomings. Those things didn’t matter; what mattered most to me were the life lessons she taught without knowing she was doing so.

Sis and I know how to make money stretch, we’re very good cooks and we’re kind to animals. We both fall a trifle short on housecleaning abilities, because most of the time we have other priorities, like putting relationships with family and friends ahead of dusting and washing dishes.

You know, there are some women who are mothers though not in the traditional sense, and I’m not talking about adoption. I have a dear friend whom I like to describe as a “mother to the world.” She has this uncanny ability to run across the poor or needy and she finds some way to brighten their world, to make them feel like they truly do matter. In my opinion, that’s how a mother acts – giving comfort, words of encouragement, and in some cases, finding just the right way to feed a hungry soul, whether it’s with a bouquet of flowers or a new air conditioner on a hot summer day.

I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating. I’m thankful that mom taught us the value of the word “no” because if she hadn’t, I know sis and I would have grown up thinking the world owed us whatever we wanted. There are some adults who have been given almost everything they asked for throughout their lives and now they can’t handle making their own way. Moms have a tough time denying their children whatever they want, and I’d bet anything that our mom struggled with that.

Being a parent is so hard sometimes. The worry never stops, arguments happen, and sometimes children will simply walk away from home without a backward glance. But someday that son or daughter may find themselves standing quietly by an open window, the scent of lilacs floating on a spring breeze and their heart will turn toward home.

That, dear reader, will be a very happy Mother’s Day indeed.

The winner is the wolf we feed

(No, this isn't a picture of a wolf, nor is it our beloved Max - though I do have a photo of her around here - this is Windmont Park in Kewanee. It's a peaceful place, and the fountain is pretty. Yup, this is a perfect spot to feed the "good" wolf).

One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, “My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all.

“One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego.

“The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf wins?”

The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

(From: A Motivational Story with Wisdom – Two Wolves Cherokee Wisdom)

A few weeks ago a friend e-mailed me the above message. She didn’t single me out; this was one of those mass missives, the kind I usually delete after reading the first sentence. But to paraphrase a famous line from the movie Jerry Maguire, she had me at the last seven words in the first sentence, so I kept the e-mail and re-read it over the next week or so.

No one wants to admit they harbor anger, envy, jealousy and the rest of the evil thoughts listed. I’ve been guilty of having every one of those awful feelings, and while I’ve dropped most of them, I find that anger and self-pity tend to stick around.

That isn’t to say that joy, peace, love, hope and all the rest of the good guys don’t have a home inside me. They do. It’s just that those other two tend to rear their ugly heads and demand to be fed regularly, and there seems to be an endless supply of, for lack of a better word, food.

Some may think I’m making up this next observation, but I’m not. I shared this quote with at least half a dozen people recently and without exception, each one zeroed in on anger and sorrow. They were angry with someone, almost always a family member, and they felt the sorrow that comes with the inevitable separation from those who once loved them.

The feeding of that wolf comes from the constant thinking and re-thinking of The Incident. It can be a new wound or an old, old one. Sad and angry thoughts intrude during the day and keep us awake at night. Close friends and co-workers often lend a sympathetic ear, thereby giving the wolf even more to eat as details are rehashed until there’s nothing left to say, at least until the next time.

As we shared our wolf stories, a common theme emerged. Anger and sorrow diminished somewhat as we shared what happens when we keep ourselves too busy to think about what brings us down. Taking a keener interest in work, volunteering, going back to school – those things and more have helped to starve the one wolf while nurturing the other.

The men and women around the table that afternoon had found ways to bring peace, hope, serenity and empathy to their lives, and for some of them, it had been too long a time. They laughed easily, and it was a beautiful sound. Though there were no rules among us banning discussion of troubles, no one mentioned anything negative. We went our separate ways, and promised to get together again soon.

I love this piece of wolf wisdom. Heck, I love wolves. Our dog Max looked like a wolf, at least to me, and one of the things about her that impressed me every day of her life was the look in her eyes. Somewhere inside of her, I could see just a hint of what looked like sadness. It was always there, even while her tail was wagging in happy anticipation of a treat or some other wonderful thing. I was never able to relieve Max of that look in her eyes.

I see that expression in the eyes of some of the people closest to me. They’ve been hurt in some way, and no matter how hard someone tries to point out all they have to be thankful for, the wolf inside is hungry and it demands to be fed.

My hope is that you are able to distinguish between the two wolves inside of you. You can pretend that all is well, like far too many people do, or you can follow the wisdom of the old Cherokee.

Life’s too short – feed the Good wolf.

Storytelling on a rainy Sunday afternoon

(A dear friend and fellow writer, unrelenting rain and wind, and the determination to speak our written words aloud - this is what brought us all together on a Sunday afternoon to the Galesburg Public Library.)

It's hard, on a bright sunny day like today to remember what Sunday was like. But I got soaked to the skin so many times that it's harder to forget that it poured all the live-long day. Any other time I would stay safely inside my warm cozy home curled under a blanket watching a tape of Corner Gas episodes and laughing until I fell asleep in my chair.

Thing is, I had to be at the Galesburg Public Library to receive the third-place winning certificate and ten bucks for my short story, Catching Up and Saying Goodbye. It was also expected that as a grown-up, I would read my work to the audience. Sure I would.

My friend and I left town an hour earlier than we needed to so we could stop at Big Lots to looks for Big Bargains. She found a few, and I proceeded to get sick. I never once thought to blame it on the weather because I knew the problem came from imagining reading in front of a bunch of strangers who would probably snicker, or worse, walk out as soon as I stumbled up to the podium.

We spent almost too much time at the store, and the longer we stayed the worse I felt. The rain was steady, and we weren't sure where the library was. Asking a clerk or two or three for directions didn't really yield the best results, so we headed out into the deluge.

As I pondered whether or not I was going to read or just pop into the library and grab my money, there was a knock on the car window next to my head. Some poor drenched woman was holding up a plastic bag. "Did you forget your paper plates?" she asked as she used the bag to cover her head. We thanked her, took the wet sack and I rolled up the window. Just then, another acquaintance waved through the raindrops and chatted for a couple of minutes.

We pulled out into traffic, and surprisingly we found the library rather quickly. There were no parking spots by the door, so I was dropped off with about ten minutes to spare. Once we got our bearings, we headed for the second floor to scope out the place. I would have to decide pretty soon, and that was enough stress to make me feel even worse.

The room was pretty big, with lots and lots of folding chairs, most of them empty. There must have been about 30 people or so, many of them young adults sitting at the front of the room. My friend and I headed to the back for cookies and juice. I grabbed a program. Maybe if I was listed in the top three to read first, I could get it over with and leave.

I found the thumbprint cookies (my favorite), poured some pink lemonade and opened the program. There I was alright - dead last. And there was an intermission. This was not going to work, and my friend knew it just by looking at the expression on my face. We approached the woman in charge, who apologized but said that yup, the program was right, I was last.

At about that time, it was decided that my story would be read, whether I did it or my friend did. Since she'd taken time out of her day to drive me there in her car, I hated to ask that of her too. And so we ate our cookies, drank our juice and listened to the other winners read their works. I couldn't be more thankful that we stuck it out.

The youngest were third, fourth and fifth graders and most of them were more than happy to read their poetry and stories in front of everyone. They posed for pictures, gave one another fist-bumps, and clutched their certificates and checks in their hands as they made their way back to their seats, grinning all the way. If they could do this, so could I.

We both were especially touched by the teen girls' poetry. One spoke of her grandmother, now in a nursing home, and she wrote with such heartbreaking tenderness that most of us were crying at the end, including the poet herself.

The two men who won first and second place were extraordinary storytellers. We won't soon forget the tale of the single dad and his two daughters, told by a man who had to have experienced this bittersweet tale. He wove word pictures that brought tears to our eyes. The second-place winner told a spooky story that was right up my alley, and I wondered why I hadn't thought of his topic.

I don't remember a whole lot about reading my piece except that people didn't leave or giggle at the wrong spots or even talk to one another while I spoke. They were all respectful and attentive, so it wasn't a horrible experience by a long shot.

When it was all over and the pictures taken, we took the elevator down, dodged raindrops and headed for a cup of coffee. We watched cars go by as we sipped and talked and tried to dry out. It was almost time to head home, and we were ready.

Those of us old enough to know better should realize by now that the anticipation of something is oftentimes far worse than than the event itself. That was certainly true last Sunday, and all I can do is give a big Thank You - to my friend for her support, to the judges for picking my story, and especially to the poets and storytellers that day who enriched our lives on that rainy afternoon in Galesburg.

Bravo.

Dog steals neighbor's dog's bone, underground fire interrupt work

(Ah, work distractions. Who doesn't have them? I have to say, though, that I procrastinate enough without outside influences, but these are sort of funny so I thought I'd share some typical experiences around our place.)


Sometimes I like the way my downstairs office is set up, and sometimes I think it would be better if I worked inside a closet. That's because last week there were too many distractions outside the big window on the other side of my desk.

The first interruption was Sarah the pup. Hubby was off somewhere and it was such a nice day, so out the door went the dog. I clipped her tie-out to her collar, brought out her water dish and went back inside to get to work.

Sarah did her usual shtick - barking at squirrels, people, rabbits, Aerial the fire house dog, and blowing leaves. I got kind of used to the noise, though I worried about the neighbors becoming irritated.

It wasn't long before I noticed how quiet things were. Maybe the dog was sunning herself and chewing on rocks. About that time there was an odd sound coming from the front of the house: someone was banging on the door.

Usually I check the peephole but I just opened up the door and there stood our neighbor. "This is your dog, right?" he asked. Sarah was jumping around, anxious to get inside where she could hide. Despite numerous experts' silly opinions, I believe dogs do know when they've been naughty and our dog has had plenty of experience in that area. She wiggled herself past the two of us and headed for the kitchen.

The neighbor had a little more to say. "Her name's Sarah, right?" he asked. "She's really friendly, she came right to me when I called her name." Thank goodness for that, I thought. There are too many ways to lose a dog, and we don't want to imagine any of them. I thanked our neighbor, then found Sarah so I could give her a hug. Stupid pooch.

The next interruption came a few days later, on a Tuesday. Hubby was out of town, it was sunny and nice and I had a lot of work to do. So, out went the dog. However, since we couldn't find out how Sarah got loose the last time, we blamed the whole thing on me, figuring the latch wasn't properly attached to the collar. This time I checked it four times. This time, there would be no loose dog.

Not quite half an hour later, I took a break from staring at the computer screen and noticed two things: it was awfully quiet, and a giant shadow passed by the window. The blinds were shut, but I know I saw a blob-shaped something go by. It was time to poke my head out and say hi to Sarah.

When there was no answer, something made me look toward the front yard. Ah, there she was. The dog was jumping around having the time of her life because she was loose and she had a prize. I've never seen a bone that big, and it wasn't the kind you purchase at a pet store. This was from some large animal.

I called Sarah and she immediately stopped running and turned around to stare at me in defiance. She put her rump in the air and her head down on her front paws. It was play time. Taking hubby's advice, I acted as though I didn't care what she did next and it worked. She bounded into the front porch and we wrestled for the bone. It stayed on the porch, and Sarah went into the house, deeply disappointed.

Within a minute, the phone rang. It was our other neighbor calling to inform me that Sarah had dug up and stolen his dog's bone. I felt awful; I love that guy's dog - he's been around for years. I apologized, hung up and waited until hubby came home so I could tell him his dog was a thief. Thing is, neither of us can figure out how Sarah's been getting loose so we're not able to tie her out any more, and that's kind of sad.

The third interruption came courtesy of hubby plus a burn day. On Saturday, I headed for my desk and hubby headed for the back yard to get rid of some landscape waste. I guess I missed the part where he set a tree stump on fire in the front parking strip. About half an hour into my writing, I couldn't help but notice the shiny bright red fire truck that slowed down and parked in front of our house. Firemen jumped out and gathered around something in the front yard, and hubby walked up to join them.

The men were talking and pointing at the blackening tree stump that had tiny flames poking out of its holes. Someone had apparently reported an underground fire (I guess I'd never thought of that sort of thing around these parts), so the firemen came to check things out. Hubby was informed that putting charcoal on the stump would work better next time, then off they went. I went back into the house, put my work away and went upstairs to take a nap.

Truth be told, it's nice having a life that's never boring. That doesn't mean I want Sarah the pup to get lost forever or that underground fires are good. Maybe it means I should only work at the office; maybe working at home invites trouble.

Could be. Nothing odd has happened while I wrote this, safe inside the building at the corner of Main and Central.

Making new memories on a train trip

(Good friends are those who have your best interests at heart, and they never stop trying to help you along the path to a healthier lifestyle, and that includes mental health. After listening to all the reasons why I never wanted to take a train to Chicago again because of truly traumatic childhood experiences, my best bud finally talked me into giving it another go. And so I did - with results even I didn't foresee.)

It's not a bit unusual for me to wake around 5 a.m., and it doesn't matter if it's a workday or not. I love the quiet, though lately Sarah the pup has been joining me in the kitchen, but once she's been out for a bit things settle down again.

A few weeks back I was in the middle of reading three newspapers, drinking coffee and watching the early news show, but my mind was on the upcoming train trip to LaGrange at precisely 8:06, less than three hours away.

As kids, sis and I had taken more than our share of train trips to Chicago, and every one of them meant that our mom had an appointment at the research hospital there. At first the trips were a novelty; the depot was a blast with its big wooden benches and never-ending parade of travelers. The train ride itself was mostly fun, except we couldn't afford the dining car so we always brought our own food, and we had to save it to eat at the hospital between mom's doctor visits.

Eventually, the twice-yearly jaunt grew old and besides, the reason behind it was frightening even though, or perhaps because, mom kept her prognosis to herself.

Those times are long gone. The last train ride in recent memory was when our youngest and I rode home to Kewanee after living in Arizona for six years. There were more good times than bad, though the bad was pretty awful. Our train hit a pickup truck and the driver didn't make it, so things were pretty low-key after that.

Those thoughts and more swirled around my mind that Wednesday morning. I wanted to make some good memories for a change, and that meant getting to the station on time. I can't stand being late, and it's a good thing because the train arrived and left right on the button.

I was encouraged by hubby and friends to be sure to visit the dining car. That suggestion was to help get over the childhood angst I had over never being able to do that as a kid, but I got so caught up with finding a seat that I forgot to ask where the dining car was. (Answer: right behind the car I was in.)

I tried to sit quickly so I could wave to hubby, but that didn't happen. I was carrying too many shoulder bags to maneuver gracefully down the narrow aisle, and before I knew it I'd thrown myself into a seat so others could get by.

Once my bags were safely placed on the window seat, I took stock of the folks around me. There was the tall young man across from me, sound asleep with his legs curled up as far as he could get them. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, and he must have been awfully tired because newly-embarking passengers and the jolt of the train never woke him.

The two young women in front of me were probably the most fascinating. It took just over two hours to get to LaGrange, and these two were able to sustain nearly non-stop giggling the entire way. Hats off. (I really wanted to say something else, but let's use that - it's more polite).

I could see folks walking back and forth with cups of ice, sodas and chips but I never asked anyone where they got the food. I was too busy listening to music on my MP3 and letting my imagination run away with me. And what a trip that was!

My first thoughts were of J. K. Rowling and how she dreamed up a young boy wizard one day while riding a train. I never saw Harry, or anyone who looked like him, even when we pulled into the Princeton train depot, the town that celebrates Platform 9 3/4 almost every year, so I was off to The Twilight Zone.

A Stop at Willoughby is a TZ favorite of mine. James Daly played a sad stressed-out man who longed for a simpler lifestyle. As he rode the train home one night after work he fell asleep and dreamed of a place called Willoughby. The year was 1888 and the people there lived a stress-free life so unlike his own. It wasn't long before the poor man decided that he'd rather live in the past than face his future so off the train he went. The last scene is of his body being placed in a hearse owned by Willoughby & Son Funeral Home.

Maybe that was the wrong path for my thinking to take, so I looked ahead to meeting my friends for a fun meeting at a Borders Bookstore. It turned out to be too much fun, because now all I can think of is going back. This time I'd pop into the snack car and pass the time there, spend hours at the bookstore, find a diner and have lunch, go back to the bookstore then hop
the train for home.

Seems to me like I've managed to replace those old musty memories with some bright new ones, and I can't wait to do it all over again.

Newspapers getting blasted from all sides

It's been hard to watch and read the news. I'm not sure when it started, but everything seems so bleak - if you believe all that you see, hear and read.

Someone somewhere commented that it was time to change this perception that all is gloom and doom. Let's take the newspaper business as an example.

Here's what happens: folks gather at the local eatery, say bad things about their local paper ("there's nothing in there - I get my news from that other paper"; "I get a paper but I don't read it"; "Don't they have a proofreader?"; "I heard they're going under"), then those remarks get repeated in other settings, advertisers hear them and cut back on their advertising, then the paper hurts and gets rid of people, then there are fewer of them to gather local news...and, well, you've got yourself a self-fulfilling prophecy. Then, the original folks can claim they were right all along.

Even before I got into the newspaper business I never understood businesses that were reluctant to advertise. How are we supposed to know when you have a sale? Or a new product? There have been some businesses I was surprised to find were still around because I hadn't seen any ads from them in ages.

I don't know - I don't have all the answers. Maybe someone can enlighten me.

On writing the best memoir(s) ever

It's Sunday morning, cold, sunny, a bit too breezy. The light snow ended about an hour ago. There was just enough to cover up the previous snows that had become dirty-looking. I'm glad there wasn't more because I'm getting worried about hubby shoveling all this white stuff, especially the kind the weather forecasters have been calling "heart-attack snow."

After church, we all met for breakfast at a favorite restaurant. We caught up with family and a friend, and saw the grandkids come in with their "Uncle" Mike and "Grandpa" Terry. The guys have quite the extended family and it was good to see them enjoying a big breakfast.

It's been a reflective time, these past few days. I saw a fascinating piece on the show Sunday Morning, about a memoirist who's written five memoirs. I recorded the program so I could watch it again and take notes because I've been awfully ticked off lately about celebrities who are paid gazillions of dollars for their memoirs (read: Britney Spears), and that means there's not a whole lot of money left to pay those of us who aren't famous folks.

It didn't help that there have been *fake* memoirs in the public eye lately. Between too much dough being thrown at those who most definitely do NOT need it, and ordinary folks making up their life stories, the rest of us could feel like giving up. But I don't plan on doing that - I simply can't.

One thing I remember from the show this morning - the guy said he had to write down his life, he simply had to. That's exactly how I feel. It's got to come out, but now I think I have a guideline to go by. I needed that because I need structure. And the other cool thing about this guy was that he and his brother don't remember things exactly the same way. That's how life is, we don't always remember things exactly the same way. That said, it's important to add that this doesn't mean the writer is lying, it just means he or she remembers in their own way.

As for me, I can't even wrap my mind around lying in a memoir. What would be the point?

I'm looking forward to writing my memoirs now, and that means I'm thankful to whoever that guy was - excuse me while I watch that piece again. Every memoirist should check this guy out.

This, that and the other

(This photo/artwork adorns the cover of my novel, "The Elephant in the Room", a work I completed last November for National Novel Writing Month.)

The past few weeks have been a bit stressful.

First, we were hoping hard to hear from our oldest son. The last time we saw him was before Christmas in 2002. The last time we heard his voice was on the telephone, and that was March 21, 2003. Then, of course, he wrote a letter, mostly intended for me, his mother, and all I can say is: We never, ever, ever taught him to speak to his parents that way.

Still, a son is a son and we love him. We wish we knew where he was, if he's alive, sick or well, happy or not - anything, just to stop the wondering. I'm not sure his dad does the same, but I often get my hopes up around special times, like anniversaries, birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving. We wonder if he is working somewhere, if he's still in the United States. It's heartbreaking to have his boys ask us if we know where he is only to have them obviously disbelieve you when you tell them you have no idea where their dad is.

Second, we've had a lot of sudden expense and other trials over the past few weeks. The boiler shut down two nights in a row this week, just as the temps hit double-digits BELOW ZERO. One morning it was 53 in the house, the next morning it was 49. We got things going again, and we're keeping the thermostat at 67. Kind of chilly, especially this time of year.

Third, our like-new tire kept going flat on us (on the car) so we had to have it repaired. Funny story: hubby put Fix-A-Flat in the tire so he could get it to the shop to be repaired only to find out that if one uses that product, the store usually refuses to repair the tire. They're more than happy to offer to install a new tire, but they won't repair the current one. We finally found someone, and it seems to be OK now, but it set us back a bit.

Fourth, yesterday the washer went out. Something was buzzing and the smell was awful. Almost all of my work clothes were in the dirty cold water and now the washer is torn apart in the back room and the clothes are wet and I need to hop in the car and toddle off to the laundromat in this frigid winter weather. Fun.

Fifth - this brings up the wandering thoughts I've been having about finding out I have a few half-siblings who are not hurting a bit for money. Mom was married to their dad for a very brief time, and after Dad died, I got zippo. Nothing. I'm mentioned in his will for a few grand but there were stipulations that had something to do with his wife also passing away. She has refused any contact with me; for some reason, she just seems to hate me, as if I had anything to do with my own birth and existence.

I found that my half-siblings are living quite the life. I even wrote to my half-sis once, including my maiden name along with my married one. She was pleasant enough, and quick to answer my real estate questions, but she did not acknowledge our sisterhood so I guess all my sibs hate me too. Or at least they're choosing to ignore me as though I don't exist.

Sometimes, life isn't fair that way and we just have to suck it up and deal with it. The way I am handling this is to write my memoirs. I've taught others how to do that, and I've even helped a family member or two with theirs. It's my turn now, and I truly believe that the only way to get all of this stuff out of my head before it drives me around the bend is to get it down on paper.

It'll be such a relief. I recommend that everyone give it a try.